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A channeling of energy
wind reduced to a simple maneuvering
stream over stone
murmuring
mist over peaks
how the spirit leaks into consciousness
a lush canopied recess
senses drunk on a chorus of Thrush
temporal glimpses of light
festooned on the branches
luminescent
beneath the surface thread
a dream flickering
while art is fed through
this transparent spool
filling the vacancy
all that is required of synchronicity
to fit the edges into a discernible pattern.

Beyond haphazard vanity
there is something outside of me
maneuvering switchbacks
steeped in obscurity
sweat on the brow searching for this purity
but thirsty
creatively empty
a written rehearsal
an elegy
for a muse
hot on the heels
of her truancy
a runaway wandering
leaves me wondering
will our highways connect?
Will they reflect in glacial lakes?
On the road to the sun
these continents divide
while memories reside
like skid marks
on a scarred blacktop.

By boot or by car
passing scenes chart the uncertainty.
Akin to being adrift on a choppy sea
a bobbing figure drawn overboard
barely buoyant
against the recurring dark
currents of thought
that do not stop at the edge
but blur the boundary instead.
Here at the end
considering those long ago dead
they’ll trespass again.
Moonlight drives its keys over the Pali
a bright fleeing to the shadows of trees
ancient struggles maneuver through valleys
materialize
out of the corner of the eyes
on paths wound around stream and fall
as the lunar calendar would allow
a disembodied conch to sound
for that transparent crowd
to march down hillsides
to the rise of the drums
under the guise of clouds
they’ll meet the dawn
with dark streaks from torches drawn
against the western sky
not yet awakened
that glimmer in the mind’s eye
where the imagination maneuvers
through a parallel universe.

IntroIn the old daystravel over the Pali wasn’t taken for granted.In the days before the 4 lane and the tunnel,offerings were still made for safe passage.Whenever one braved its twisting road built of earth and bone,carved into volcanic stone, it awaits,canopied by monstrous treesso that hardly any light would lead you through the gauntlet’s gates.Challenging both physically and mentally,one confronts the myth and reality.Much of it depends on your dispositionfor something begins to take hold the deeper you go in,something over the shoulder, vague and unsettling,the forest all around you, flourishing,in places invading, veins turning to vine,everyone has their threshold and in time may re-rootto be pinned like a vicebetween here and the other side.Between the wall of wind and the shroud of mist,the Old Pali is, in essence, a precipicethat since ancient times has swallowed many.

Part 1. A Dead End Relationship

The Old Pali,where nightmares are like notches on a frayed beltthat winds its way tightly around the imagination.One corpse felled glittering remainsin the sun and cloud shadow.It may be missedunder the mist of time but they are tied together,seems the Pali claimed another.Perhaps an Akua or sacrificial altar,whatever the legend, it appears shrouded in mystery.Startled by your own shadow,clouds crawl down hillsides to consume you,like your obsessionfor those who have fallen and made an impression.For those looking for a guide,the clouds were paper lanterns over the eyethat leads them to the leaping point by moonlight.

Along the road that winds through the past,time hangs suspended,limbs gently swaying in the breeze,layer upon layer of leaf and debris,hiding the discarded,myth and history heaped on its shoulder,unearthed with every blasted boulder,until bones are covered overwith a damp and mossy concrete.For those passing through their shadow,the concrete shifts to the immaterial.In this liminal place of dark wood and narrow light,we crawl to the edges of a stark insight,that nothing awaits save what we bring insidethe condemned palace of the mind’s eye.So we become dark tourists for all the sordid storiesthat pilgrim down a derelict road,whose text is scrawled in scars and on abandoned cars,spray painted on the walls thick with losslike a moss that gives it a translucent glow.Looked at in a certain light,it is a flight from the city,a flight of fancy into the phantastic pastwhere certain things endure,so traumatic they cannot help but lingerin the swarming subconscious of the last person who will remember it.You pass through there and a part of you merges with it forever.The kind of permanence that a snapshot fails to showbut the sensitive may get to know on a moonless night.Pitch black are the contours appearing like cracks in the forestthat is a living, breathing witness to everything.There’s a wind to its willthat shakes all that is predictable.A Wilder wind that wails through the boughs and limbsand you feel in everything, that there is more than what it seems.With little resistance you fall into its embrace,chasing dark shapes, flashing lights,formless flights on the Old Palias it slithers out of sight.Follow the wallthat intersects the civil and the wild.Stripped of foundations,slow driven to exile.If thoughts get locked in a bamboo prison,look for a guide of light,may it shoot through in prismsand see you to safety.

This darker inverseto the bustling city commute.The Old Pali, a parallel place,is at root an intermediary,a dead end where you keep going.There is always rain hereas it aids in the unknowing.A dead road the city closed,could not be monitored nor maintained.Too much has happened at night,terrible remnants just off the shoulder,beyond the police tape,so they closed it behind gates,letting the walls become overgrown with rootsand the surrounding jungle sprawlsinto a dumping ground for the discarded.A dead end for the dark hearted,always parked there in a white Valiant.Are these apparitions all in the imagination?The first thoughts cobble into nowhere.Between the stone and the stream,the substance and the dream,the first road under the brush of timethat painted it impenetrable.The distraught come to follow its cracked pavement,like all the fractured friendships and loved ones they’ll leave behind.Until they find on edges a precarious balance,perched above where it submerges into the primary textureof the pain-washed receptorthat lies below their disappearance.

How surreal that ride must have been.
Beginning with the sound of tires over gravel,
pulling up alongside you.
Once initiated, this ride through your hometown
would careen past the familiar street lights and signs
of roads you crossed countless times.
Kailua must have assumed the eerie glow of the unfamiliar,
as divider lines become the only light
as the Plymouth probes deeper into night,
towards a cul-de-sac and out of sight.

What would happen next,
you friend was forced to witness,
disoriented, scared
and scarred forever,
like that deserted road,
a derelict memory you would hold
for so long in that jungle.